


believing your own stories

by Maple_Fay



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Sort Of, cis girls au, it's complicated - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21609979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maple_Fay/pseuds/Maple_Fay
Summary: "She enjoys the thought that her work makes someone—perhaps even multiple someones—smile, from time to time. It’s enough to make HER smile in return."
Relationships: Trixie Mattel/Katya Zamolodchikova
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	1. makes you lose your thought

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have no idea how this happened. I had an awful week at work, it's Friday night and I should be either sleeping or packing (I'm visiting my BFF in London tomorrow, and seeing Jinkx and Dela on Monday : can you tell I AM GENUINELY EXCITED??), but instead I came up with this idea, and could rest until I had the first chapter out. Let me know what you think, please?
> 
> Story/chapter titles from "Open Book" by Cake.

Katya realizes something’s up the moment she opens the door. Craig is half-hanging off the couch, one arm dangling down and smacking the floor repeatedly as he roars with laughter at something Sharon’s been reading…

…on Katya’s battered laptop.

“The fuck, you loons?” Katya groans, kicking off her sensible heels and shrugging out of the suit jacket, having enough self-control to hang it up properly instead of simply balling it up and sticking it into the dark recesses of her closet. “Ever heard od privacy? GDPR? And other vaguely ominous stuff?”

She would have expected Craig to rush in with an explanation, but it’s actually Sharon who walks over, looking sheepish, and throws her arms around Katya’s shoulders with a cute little pout. “Sorry, mama—I got a new review notification for that last story of yours, and then this whole shitstorm started up on that forum, and I thought I’d pull it up for you—”

“Why do _you_ have a notification set up for _my_ reviews?” Katya frowns, extracting herself from Sharon’s embrace with a quick pat on her hip—they’re fine, they’re best friends, she won’t get petty over something as meaningless as this. “I knew you didn’t have much in a way of social life, but this is nasty, Needles. And what’s that about a shitstorm?”

Craig flashes her a toothy grin, throws a packet of cigarettes at her face—she barely catches it. “Your _biggest fan_ is at it again, Yekaterina.”

Katya groans and lights up, feeling the exhaustion creep up her back and settle behind her eyes. “Not _that one_ , not today, _fuck_. I’m too tired for this shit.”

“Aww,” Sharon coos mockingly, walking barefoot into the kitchen and coming right back, presenting Katya with a wineglass inelegantly filled to the brim with her favorite cheap Pinot. “Are you getting _old_ , Zamo? Perhaps you should… you know, _quit_?”

“Perhaps you should go and fuck a hedgehog?” Katya offers back without any actual bite in her voice, and gulps on the wine gratefully. “Let me see what they're up to today.”

She brings up the browser window and goes to the new review first—she’s read it on her phone the moment she felt the telltale _ping_ in her skirt pocket, but keeping a straight face as she excuses herself and gets up from the table and the Financial Department meeting, pretending to be focusing on something work-related, is completely different from basking in the warmth of admiration she gets from the fans of her meagre literary work. Katya smirks at the numerous punctuation marks and expletives, adds a quick thank-you note to the comment lest she forgets to do it later—and then switches the tabs, taking another fortifying gulp of wine.

At thirty seven, Yekaterina Zamolodchikova is one of the best HR consultants you could get to work on your recruitment staff—which is why she mostly works freelance, making an effort to dress _like a corporate bitch in charge_ , but holding on to her independent, quirky ways for dear life. She still feels—and looks—more or less the same way she had at seventeen, if you disregard acute joint pain flaring up out of nowhere, and deepening laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. And oh, a slightly better wardrobe, plus a _way_ more negative outlook on the humanity’s collective intelligence.

She’s still quintessentially _Katya_ , though, and makes sure she does plenty of things in her life that bring her as close to that loud, spontaneous, laughing girl as possible. She’s not painting her memories pink or anything, not by a long shot, but it _has_ been a time of growth and gaining knowledge—more often than not, through her own painful mistakes—that she likes to ruminate on. She hopes she maintains the joy she’d felt as a young girl way into her boring, corporate adulthood.

One way of keeping her youthful self alive is living with her two best friends—people who have known her since forever, and stuck on like the dirt caking her trusty Docs. Another is getting elaborate, ethnic tattoos in places that no corporate asshole breathing suggestively down her neck as she explains her hiring scheme can’t _ever_ see. She ditched the more destructive energy outlets—like picking random girls in bars, and getting way too attached to them for her own good, or drunk-skyping her parents in Russia, promising she’d be a good daughter if only they came back Stateside—and kept the creative ones open wide.

Which is why she is currently smiling at a review of her new story—a steamy, smutty, heart wrenching, extremely gay and very well worded _fanfiction_ , the kind that she writes religiously for queer books and movies from the days of her youth.

Not many people she meets understand why she writes what she does. They claim it’s due to lack of originality (or, plainly put, talent), and thus disregard a big chunk of modern pop culture, or so Katya would loudly explain to her long-suffering roommates. Truth is, she’s never wanted to create new characters: she wanted to _revisit the ones she’d fallen in love with_ , through whatever media, and do well by them... mostly by making them have a lot of hot, consensual, and somewhat kinky, sex. Because that’s definitely _not_ what mass media would give their consumers, unless you count certain TV series written by misogynists and frustrates. Katya is proud to say she’s neither—and both her experience (vastly exaggerated, she sometimes acknowledges to herself) and vivid imagination supply her with a variety of scenarios that people (she _thinks_ they’re people, but they might also be kinky robots, or whatever) enjoy reading.

She likes the rush of instant gratification at seeing the hit counter climb up, up, up. She loves the daily (almost daily, depending on how often she posts new stuff) comment and likes notifications. She’s happy to reply to questions, to log on to internet forums and discuss the twists and bends of the craft with fellow writers. She knows what she is not—a Nobel prize candidate—and she knows what she _is_ : a decent craftswoman, giving her readers a few moments of blissful break from the cold, dark reality.

She enjoys the thought that her work makes someone—perhaps even multiple someones—smile, from time to time. It’s enough to make _her_ smile in return.

On the other side of the happiness, of the pleasant ache in her joints as she gets up from her desk chair after hours of writing, are the negative reviews. Well, okay, not _negative_ per se—just… vile.

Some people take a strange, perverse pleasure at putting other people down. Katya can’t say she understands that: she’s as eager a fanfiction writer as she is a _reader_ , but if she opens a story she doesn’t enjoy, she simply _closes the tab_ , and moves on. Why would she take the time from her already busy day—time she could have spent reading something she actually _likes_ , something that makes her skin buzz pleasantly with vicarious want—on moaning and groaning over how awful this or that story was? The author clearly wasn’t writing it for _her_ personally. What gives her the right to judge him, as if she’s the only reader in the world?

For some reason, one particular reader— _PHBabie_ —registered at a forum Katya frequents with some regularity, reading from the sidelines and sometimes interacting with her ‘fans’—believes that Katya’s stories should cater to their particular tastes, and complains extremely loudly when they don’t.

As is the case today.

Katya squares off her shoulders, moves the glass away from the laptop, and reads out from the page: “ _Re: ‘_ Bee-Charmer, Pick Thy Honey _’:_ _I was looking for a REALISTIC_ Fried Green Tomatoes _fic, and what did I get? Come on, people. Did you really think it was GOOD? What did I miss, then? Why is there so much sex? I mean, I get what their relationship was like, but seriously? I don’t buy it. What the f*ck is going on there? All those_ vibrations, quivers _and_ moans _? Is this porn? Is this_ Grey 2.0 _? Why must KomaZ pretend that she (he?) knows anything about the female sexual response? Of how a woman’s anatomy_ works _? Or, in fact, how to write a truly compelling, and_ actually interesting _, story? Is it just wishful thinking? Good luck getting THAT out of any girl. 0.1/5, I stopped after this chapter and won’t read it again.”_ Katya raises her head and snorts, stubs her cigarette in Sharon’s fancy ashtray. “Honey, I _have_ got that out of some girls. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“People have been replying to that thread all afternoon,” Craig supplies readily from his place on the couch. “Mostly with offers of proving your story right.”

“Others were more like: ‘shit, man, don’t touch that, there’s probably cobwebs up in there,’” Sharon adds, propping a hip on the desk next to Katya’s elbow. “You might want to skip that particular thread, babe. People are _nasty_.”

“And jealous.”

“And jealous, yeah.”

“And you are both bitter as hell,” Katya quips, rubbing her cheek against Sharon’s arm. “Thanks, Needles. I would have been miserable reading that. Takes all the joy out of well-written smut.”

“Which is always a shame,” Sharon steals a sip of Katya’s wine, and hums thoughtfully—perhaps reminiscing on something she’s either read or experienced before. Katya _really_ doesn’t want to know.

“Who do you think she is?” Craig asks, raising a hand against Sharon’s instant frown. “I know, I know—might not be a woman, but they certainly _present_ as one online, so bite me, she’s a she to me. What I’m asking is—is she trapped in some sort of a horrid relationship, and trying to get out? Or is she like, eleven, and completely frightened of sex? Or maybe—”

“I don’t really care,” Katya says slowly, trying hard to ignore further posts on the page, in which _PHBabie_ calls her _egotistical, maniacal, and clearly obsessed with unhealthy amounts of sex_ , but her eyes keep catching on to the negativity, pulling her in head first. “I just hope that they felt happier now they’ve pulled me through the mud. Feel better, whoever.”

“They’d be happier if they could try it out with someone, is all I’m saying,” Craig mumbles under his breath, and Katya almost manages to ignore it.

\--

Katya hates these steel-and-glass buildings, cold and sterile, filled with sweaty executives (why do they even have air conditioning?, she wonders) and subdued women who never get past junior manager level. She power-walks by an empty cafeteria, talks briefly to the pale, brown-haired intern at the front desk, and is finally let through to the small, stuffy conference room overlooking the building next door. She walks over, pushes her fingertips against the glass; looks down. Breathes in and out. It’s Friday, three days after the post-update shitstorm, and she’s still in her head about it a little. She’s been working on the next part of the story, and taking time to stay away from the drama: but she knows it’s _there_ , she realizes people are still posting new comments under _PHBabie_ ’s original post, and feeding the negativity. Katya know, logically, that she shouldn’t take it personally—she can’t please everyone, and the majority of her readers found the chapter with the sex scene _pleasurable_ , so to speak—but she still feels responsible for the onslaught of invectives and bullying. She needs to process it—play pool in some shady bar, go out and dance until her knees buckle, play a tabletop game with her friends—but instead, she’s about to have yet another dull meeting with a Junior HR Manager Something Or Other, and explain to them that calling the company’s employees “resources” in official emails is probably _not_ the best PR move. Joy, oh, joy.

She hears the clacking of an impractical pair of heels—the dress code here was probably established by someone who’d never had to wear a pair—and turns back towards the room, trying to school her features into a smile. It’s only an afternoon of this, and then she’s free to be _herself_ for the weekend, to write and…

The door opens, and Katya loses her train of thought.

The woman that enters the room is trying really hard to make herself look smaller and duller than she is: and failing. Her hair, fairer than Katya’s dirty blonde, is pulled back into a simple knot: but the sheer volume of it makes Katya extremely jealous. Her makeup is carefully toned down—subtle browns and beiges—and yet Katya can easily imagine her with glitter, bright blue eyeshadow and winged eyeliner bringing out golden flecks in soft brown eyes. Her pristine white blouse stretches over an impressive chest, but Katya fixates on the beautiful lines of her slim wrists instead of the _obvious_ focal point. She wishes she could see her in “off-duty” clothes, instead of the uniform-like, conservative skirt and a grey pullover. Not even her shoes—beautiful pearly pumps—break through the image of a down-to-Earth, devoted office worker, secretly dreaming of a career in show business or something of that ilk. Or maybe Katya is simply projecting something onto the stranger.

Whatever the case, she needs to snap out of it, and _fast_. “Good afternoon,” she says in her best professional voice, walking around the conference table to shake the stranger’s hand, “I’m Yekaterina Zamolodchikova.”

“Oh, I _know_ ,” the woman squeezes Katya’s hand excitedly (she has very soft skin, but her handshake is firm and resolute). “I went to your seminar on the principles of conducting a successful job interview: it really helped get me started on my way, so to speak.” She smiles, and Katya stops worrying about the afternoon being dull or tiresome. “I’m Beatrice Mattel, Hiring Consultant—please, call me Trixie.”

“Only if you call me Katya.” She’s laying it on a little bit thick, but honestly—who could blame her? The woman is gorgeous, despite doing her best to appear otherwise, and Katya is always looking for an inspiration: both for her work, and her life. “Shall we get started?”

\--

They finish up two hours ahead of schedule—Trixie _did_ pay attention during that seminar—and end up having late lunch/early dinner together in a dinky hole-in-the-wall pasta shop just around the corner from the office. Katya marvels at the metamorphosis Trixie has undergone since leaving the confines of her workplace: two top buttons of her shirt have come undone, her sleeves have been rolled up to her elbows (the skin on the inside of her arms is almost translucent, and mesmerizes Katya completely) and a few strands of curly blond hair have escaped from her updo. Katya’s fingers itch to pull on them, wrap them around her fingers and bring Trixie closer, close enough to properly smell her perfume: she’d got a faint whiff as Trixie sat down in a chair opposite her, and is now dying to know what it is. Instead, she twists some overpriced spaghetti around her fork, and listens to Trixie talk about her life outside of work: a welcome change after hours of HR talk.

“I always thought I would get that big break once I’d come to the city, you know? Find an amazing job that would pay crap but let me pursue my art. Meet a beautiful—” her eyes fly to Katya’s face and she clears her throat, “—I mean, a _handsome man_ , have a great relationship, buy a house in the suburbs, be extremely successful… Instead, I’m _this_ ,” she waves her hand up and down, Katya’s eyes following the curves of Trixie’s body, “up to eleven hours a day, and when I come back to my poor excuse of a rented flat, I barely have enough energy to switch on Netflix, pour myself some wine and read a bit, before I fall asleep on the couch and ruin another throw pillow with my lipstick.” She sighs and grunts, jabbing at her Bolognese. “I get so angry with my life, Katya. I feel like a complete loser.”

“Hey, now, come on,” Katya rushes to soothe her, feeling a strange pull rise inside her; she’s known this woman for less than a day, barely an afternoon, and yet she feels strangely protective of her. “Don’t be like that. You’re clearly in a funk, yes, but that doesn’t mean that you’re a failure—everybody’s got those low points, but they pass, and…” She shakes her head, reaches out and squeezes Trixie’s free hand, her heart skipping a beat when the other woman instantly slips her fingers between Katya’s. “I’m not a guru by any stretch of imagination, but I can tell you this: you are the only person that can decide how you feel about the world, and once you do, it makes a whole lot of difference. Yes, people will still act like assholes; yes, your job will continue to suck and the money you’re making still won’t seem like much: but you will be able to create a whole new dimension within this world. A place where anything can happen.”

Trixie is holding on to every word that comes out of Katya’s lips, so focused on her that she doesn’t even notice herself leaning in closer—Katya finishes her impromptu speech and licks her lips, notices how Trixie’s eyes flicker down for a split second—so close, in fact, that the front on her pristine white blouse brushes against the pasta piled up on her plate. Katya gasps and drops her fork, her first instinct urging her to wipe the thick tomato sauce away: she catches herself just in time, pulls her hand away hastily. “Oh.”

Trixie releases Katya’s other hand very slowly, looks down at herself—she gets an adorable double-chin when she does that, and the thought makes Katya want to _run_ , because everything is happening way too fast for this sort of a casual acquaintance—and groans. “I always make such a mess of myself,” she grumbles, trying in vain to assess the damage, before sitting back in a huff. “I need to go home, get changed.”

The atmosphere between them shifts slightly, and Katya relaxes. She still has no idea what’s going on. They met, she felt an instant attraction, they talked, Trixie obviously felt _something_ : it’s not exactly how her usual hookups would start, but this is not a dark and crowded bar at two AM; they’re sitting in a sunlit patio of a mediocre bistro, no longer holding hands but somehow remaining in contact. It’s bizarre.

It makes Katya want to know what happens next.

It makes her hate Bolognese with vengeance.

“Okay,” she says and stands up hastily, wanting to give Trixie a moment to recuperate, “I’ll get the check, don’t worry about it.”

“Katya?”

“Yeah?”

Trixie is looking up at her with wide, wild eyes, twisting her fingers together. “I don’t know how to—look, I’m thirty one and I’ve only been in one semi-serious relationship, plus a bunch of Tinder dates that didn’t all work out great, so bear with me, okay?”

Katya nods slowly, and sinks back down into her chair. “I’m listening.”

Trixie bites her lip, cracks her knuckles with a loud noise that makes both her and Katya wince. “I don’t know what’s going on here. Do you?”

“Not really. Not… yet.”

“But something _is_ going on?” Trixie’s eyes take on a pleading look, and she untwists her fingers to reach for Katya’s. “I’m not imagining it?”

“No,” Katya answers in a low voice, licks her lips again and holds Trixie’s gaze, “you aren’t—unless I am, too.”

Trixie blushes prettily, shakes her head ‘no’ and scrunches up her nose. “I really need to change, though.”

“Okay.”

“Will you… Katya, will you come home with me?”

It’s late afternoon on a Friday. She’s in her work clothes, and Trixie’s in hers; neither of them is exactly the person they’d want to be perceived at, or at least that’s what Katya thinks. The whole situation is completely out of place, and yet: she’s seldom felt this sure about an answer.

“Yes.”

\--

Trixie’s apartment is a studio, and it’s as filled with personality as her business attire was void of it. There are makeup supplies and utensils spread all over a large vanity table by the window, some polaroid shots framing the oval mirror—Trixie’s selfies in various looks, clearly an art project in the works. A guitar case is lying on the floor by the bed as a makeshift table, holding a stack of fashion magazines, a contact lens holder and an empty teacup. The kitchenette is tidy in terms of any after products of proper cooking, but a stack of empty boxes from a Thai restaurant tells Katya quite a lot about Trixie’s eating habits. There are no window drapes, but a large piece of sheer pink fabric has been pinned haphazardly to the curtain rail, throwing a soft, pinkish hue on the whole interior.

Trixie walks straight to her closet, throwing the doors open and leafing through piles of clothes in varying shades of pink (Katya is sure there are others colors in there, too, given Trixie’s current ensemble, but the makeshift drape makes it hard to judge), leaving Katya to look around the place. She stops by a small, worn-out sofa: there’s a low table next to it, where a half-full wine glass keeps company to a small laptop and an eBook reader. Apparently, Trixie hasn’t been exaggerating when she’d described her evening routine.

“What are you reading?” Katya asks, intrigued by the fact that the small device seems to be the only source of written word in sight (not counting the magazines). Trixie gasps and turns around, clutching a (pink) piece of clothing to her chest.

“Don’t look at it, please! It’s… embarrassing.” She looks like a picture of blushing innocence, and Katya laughs with glee.

“Trixie! Have you been reading _adult novels_?!” _It’s always the quiet ones_.

Trixie blushes an even darker shade of pink, and Katya’s heartbeat quickens. “I—no, not _really_ , but—look, I’m going to change now,” she points at the bathroom door to her left, “and you can check it out, if you want to: but I won’t be responsible for any lasting brain damage, okay?”

“See, that’s just foreplay to me,” Katya smirks, loving the way Trixie’s throat moves as she swallows heavily. Perhaps they should simply forego the whole pretense of her changing clothes and Katya pretending she isn’t waiting to _undress her_ properly: but the game is on, and so they go through the motions: Trixie disappearing off into the bathroom, and Katya gingerly picking up the reading device.

It pings softly when it comes to life, and Katya smirks at the sight of a familiar fanfiction site logo in the corner of the browser window. _Perhaps Trixie’s not_ that _innocent, then_. She scrolls down, looks for the title, and lets out a silent scream of joy and disbelief.

 _Bee-Charmer, Pick Thy Honey_.

Trixie’s been reading _her story_.

Katya instantly wants to know everything—did she like it? Which part? Is there anything she might want to _try_ , today or at a later point in time (Katya is now quite sure today won’t be the only time they see each other)? Is there anything Katya’s written about that Trixie has actually _tried_ before? The anticipation makes her giddy, and she scrolls leisurely down to the end of the chapter, waiting impatiently for Trixie to come back and _talk to her_ —until she reaches the bottom of the page, and realizes that an empty comment window is visible, and Trixie’s username is displayed directly above it. Katya blinks once, twice, three times, but the bold, black letters won’t budge.

 _PinkHairedBarbie_.

This could be a coincidence. This could be anything at all.

She thinks of the acid behind _PHBabie_ ’s words—of their promise to stop reading the story—and then of Trixie’s warm attitude, the gentleness of her demeanor. It doesn’t add up. She’s reading too much into this. This is not what it looks like.

Whatever it _is_ , though, one thing is for certain: she must tell Trixie who she is, _right away_. And if she doesn’t… well.

She should leave.

The bathroom door creaks open behind her.

**TBC…**


	2. it quickens, it thickens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-huh, Happy New Year, everybody! Sorry it took so long, I literally have no excuse other than having been in a complete daze after meeting Jinkx and Dela in London (being manhandled by Jinkx Monsoon, who couldn't get enough of my drag tattoos, has become one of my top accomplishments in life; I'm thinking of putting it on my resume), and then having an awful holiday season. Hope that your holidays were much, MUCH better than mine - please accept this meagre token of my devotion.
> 
> Have a happy 2020, love you guys!

Trixie is a vision in pink.

Her dress is a cross between a nightie and a summer wrap dress, thin straps resting against freckled-covered shoulders, lace hugging creamy curves and valleys in the most delicious way. She’s barefoot and flushed, twirling a strand of hair around her finger with a self-conscious look on her face. There’s something about her—the tension in her shoulders, the way she navigates around furniture to come closer—that shows how nervous she is, despite the attempts to look cool and composed.

Katya thinks she’s utterly adorable.

She swallows, hard, unclenching her fingers from around the eBook reader. Her mouth is a desert, all moisture having escaped to a much different place in her body.

Trixie walks towards her with a gentle sway of her hips, wraps a hand around Katya’s fingers on the reader. Her voice barely shakes when she speaks. “Well, then: what’s the verdict? Do you think I’m rotten?”

“What? No!” Katya blinks, feeling a heat wave rising in her chest—if Trixie thinks herself to be rotten because she _reads_ smutty fanfics, what does that say about Katya herself? “It’s, you know—an outlet? Better than going out and hooking up with random people to scratch an itch, right?”

Trixie hums in agreement, squeezing Katya’s clammy hands. “I—don’t really do that. Go out all that much. Look for people. Experiment. I thought I would, once I’d moved to the city, but—” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes at Katya. “I guess I don’t—feel desirable, somehow, not with what I have to offer.”

“That’s completely unfounded,” Katya says heatedly, dropping the reader to the sofa and properly taking Trixie’s hand in hers. “You’re gorgeous, and I think you know it.”

“Thank you,” Trixie breathes, looking at her from under her lashes and blushing furiously. “Can I kiss you?”

She sounds more scared than flirty, but Katya still has to remind her own knees how to work properly, and draws in a shaky breath. “Trixie, I—need to tell you something.”

“Is this about arthritis, or uncontrollable muscle spasms?”

“ _What_?”

“I’m just trying to determine what dangers I could face while getting involved with an elderly person.”

Katya screams with laughter, dropping forward to rest her forehead against Trixie’s shoulder for a second. She _likes this girl_ —genuinely—and it’s a great bloody mess, given their previous interactions online. “Nothing like that, it’s just—it’s _me_ , Trixie.”

Trixie frowns at her, biting her lip. “As in, ‘it’s not you, it’s me?’”

Katya releases her hands (she shouldn’t be touching her for this part) and points at the discarded reader. “ _KomaZ_. It’s an acronym of K. Zamo.” She watches with clenched throat as Trixie’s eyes widen in understanding. “I wrote this.”

Even in the artificial pink hue, Trixie’s face pales visibly. “Oh my God. You’re—and I was— _holy fuck_.”

Katya shrugs weakly, feeling a wave of tension rise in her chest. “…yeah.”

Trixie buries her face in her hands, shakes her head with enough force to send her luscious curls flying. “This is a nightmare. Or an _awful_ rom-com.” She looks at Katya through her fingers and bites her lip. “And you’re still here? You haven’t left once you found out? That’s… noble.”

“I’m not _noble_ , Trixie, I’m just… curious,” Katya admits, scratching her neck self-consciously. “I mean—you’re great, and lovely, and I _really like you_ : but you’ve been such a bitch to me online, and I wanted to know: why? You downloaded the story, so there must have been _something_ in it you liked: and yet you said you wouldn’t read it anymore, and… I don’t get it, okay?”

Trixie huffs and sits down, narrowly missing the eBook reader. “I was… jealous, okay? Jealous, and petty, and angry and— _ugh_. Do you really want me to say it?”

Katya thinks she knows where this is going, but she’d rather hear it from Trixie’s own mouth, lest her mind is playing tricks on her. “Yeah. Kinda. If you don’t mind.”

“I had this stupid fantasy—I was hoping I’d meet you,” Trixie says after a long pause, looking down at her hands. “I would be in a bar somewhere, other side of the world, most likely, and then you would walk by and brush my shoulder, and I would _know_ it was you. We would talk, and I would be brave and flirty and smart, and you would take me home with you—or not, maybe we’d just stop in an alley somewhere—and show me that all the things you write about are actually true. You would touch me, and not care that I’d only had one lousy boyfriend in college who was even more closeted than me, and that every time I hooked up with a girl they’d end up being disappointed somehow.” She takes a long, steadying breath, and finally looks Katya in the eye. “You would have me do all kinds of kinky stuff, and it would all be new and exciting and amazing, and maybe a little scary. And you—you would enjoy it, too.

“But that’s not what’s going to happen, is it? You know now—who I am. I’m a fraud, Katya. I pretend to be brave and bold, to know how to woo girls and what is and isn’t realistic about sex. I get frustrated and attack people online instead of being more open about what I want. _I_ wouldn’t like to—be with me. And maybe _you_ shouldn’t either.” She sniffs and rubs at her eyes, leaving a black smudge across her cheek. Katya wants to rub it off with her lashes.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Trixie goes on, looking away again. Katya wonders whether she means just their ‘interactions’ online, or if she also regrets inviting a stranger into her home and being so vulnerable in front of them. Both, perhaps. “You don’t care about any of this; and why should you? ‘S not your fault I’m a bitter mess of sexual frustration. It’s my own problem, and I should take care of it. Other people would.”

“Hey, Trixie, come on,” Katya rolls her eyes and sits down, cross-legged, right in front of Trixie’s sofa, dangerously close to her bare knees, “that’s not how these things work. Everyone has a different story, and it makes _zero_ sense to try and compare them.”

“Easy for you to say. You look like a centerfold model, and you’ve probably slept with _tons_ of girls—” Katya raises an eyebrow, and Trixie splutters, smacking herself on the forehead. “See? I can’t even _flirt_ right, not to mention… other stuff.”

“I think you’re actually doing quite well,” Katya hums low in her throat, rubbing the hemline of Trixie’s dress between two fingers. “I’m glad that you told me about all this—it makes sense now, how you acted. I’m still hurt, mind you, but at least I understand.” Trixie nods glumly, still refusing to meet Katya’s eyes. Something needs to be done about it, and _fast_. “And I’m glad you told me about yourself, too: what if I tried some of my _kinky stuff_ on you, and broke you completely?”

Trixie shrieks with laughter and sticks a tongue out at her. “That’s it! You’re actually an awful person, and I don’t want to talk to you anymore!” Her eyes are still a little moist, but Katya detects some signs of merriment: plus, now that’s she’s actually looking at Katya, she keeps on glancing down to her lips, making a slow wave of desire start creeping up her skin.

“That's fair. Do you still wanna kiss me, though?”

\--

When she was a little girl ( _back in Mediaeval Times_ , as Sharon would say—even though the bitch is almost _a year older than her_ ), Katya once broke an old-fashioned thermometer, and sat on the floor between shards of glass, watching as the mercury rippled, turned into tiny balls, and moved around to form one cohesive sphere.

She’s reminded of that sensation as Trixie throws herself off the sofa and into her lap, kissing Katya with wild abandon. It's endearingly sloppy, and full of frantic energy Katya wishes she could swallow whole. Perhaps she'll do just that, she muses, curling her tongue around Trixie's and smirking as a moan rises in the younger woman's throat. Katya runs her tongue against the back of Trixie's teeth, splays her hands over her knees, curls the thumbs inwards to rub at the soft, bare skin. Trixie breaks the kiss with a sigh and falls forward, lips finding the nape of Katya's neck and arms wrapping tightly around her bony shoulders. Katya presses her open mouth to Trixie's collarbone, licks a thin line over it from the outside in. “Okay?”

Trixie nods, relaxing ever so slightly. “Yeah. Just... a lot of everything, you know?”

Katya kisses her skin again; her mouth is watering and the taste and smell of it, and she'd love to go back to Trixie's _mouth_ , but this will do for now: sending either of them into sensory overload doesn't sound like a particularly good idea, and Katya doesn't want this to end. Not ever, if possible.

“Talk to me, baby girl. Tell me everything,” she murmurs into Trixie's ear, taking her hands off her knees and placing them on her hips instead. She starts rubbing slow, steady circles against the delicate fabric of Trixie's dress, wide but not straying from the soft indent of her waist. Trixie hums softly, noses at Katya's hair. ”This is nice,” she whispers, stretching her spine and resting more of her weight against Katya: who, in turn, carefully maintains a modicum of space between their upper bodies. She knows that Trixie is not a child, and since she’s read Katya’s stories she knows what to expect: but the theoretical knowledge of sex and actual active participation in sexual activities are two very different things, and Katya would loathe to spoil this experience for her. She’ll go as slow as she needs to, but won’t hold back if she’s allowed to explore. Her lizard brain, screaming at her to just _devour_ Trixie, will have to wait.

“Yeah?”

Trixie nods, mimicking Katya's movements on her upper back. “Safe,” she says into Katya's hair, making her heart swell with tenderness. She wouldn't have thought of Trixie as insecure in any way, not judging from their interactions online and not after spending the day with her: which only shows how you can never really know somebody's truth unless they choose to show you, and let you under their skin.

She’s so, _so_ grateful that Trixie did.

She turns her head, places a feather-light kiss under Trixie’s left ear. Smirks at her soft sigh. “Talk to me,” she encourages again, her own voice sounding foreign in her ears, low and raspy with barely contained _need_. Trixie breathes in sharply, turns her head to push more of her neck against Katya’s lips. She happily obliges, nipping playfully at the exposed flesh. “You can tell me anything. Everything.” _You’re safe_ , she doesn’t say, but hope that Trixie knows it all the same.

Trixie lets out a small, strangled noise that sounds suspiciously close to a whine, and Katya’s hands clench involuntarily around her hips. “Can you just… kiss me again?”

Oh, can she _ever_.

She licks happily into Trixie’s mouth, moves one hand up to tangle in her curls and maneuver her gently to deepen the kiss. Her other hand keeps tracing slow circles over Trixie’s hip, fingertips reaching up to graze at her ribcage tantalizingly slow, never quite touching the underside of Trixie’s breast. She sucks at Trixie’s tongue, revels at the chill spilling down her spine as Trixie’s nails dig into the muscles on her back.

“Katya. _Katya_.”

“Hmm?” she hums, worrying Trixie’s earlobe between her teeth.

“If you don’t move that hand, I’ll—”

Katya smirks into Trixie’s neck, swipes the pads of her fingers over the soft flesh of her breast, thumb grazing the nipple just so. “You’ll do what, honey?”

In lieu of a reply, Trixie pulls Katya’s mouth back to hers, moaning into her and pushing more her breast into Katya’s grasp. “I’m not made of glass, you know.”

“I know, Trixie, I—” Katya pulls back, kisses her nose, presses her thumb more firmly against Trixie’s nipple. “I want to make sure we’re good. I need you here with me, okay?”

Trixie nods, taking Katya’s face into her hands and tracing the outline of her mouth with a steady finger. “All the way.”

They kiss again, and Katya can feel a change in Trixie: she becomes more aggressive, dominating their kisses, angling her head to get a close to Katya as possible. Since she no longer needs to guide her, Katya brings both her hands to Trixie’s breasts, reveling in the way they fill their palms, the quickness with which Trixie’s nipples harden under Katya’s touch. She yearns for her, dying for a taste—and Trixie must be feeling something quite similar, because she’s pulling away, grabbing at the hem of her dress. “Can we just—can you—” she pants into Katya’s neck, trying to get the garment out of the way. Katya laughs and helps her, pulls the dress over Trixie’s head and drops it to the floor, leaves her hands buried in Trixie’s hair for a moment. Trixie doesn’t let her bask in the intimacy of the gesture for too long, pulling at Katya’s arms with determination. “Come _on_ , Katya, don’t—” Her words turn into a moan as Katya licks down her neck, dips between Trixie’s breasts for a moment, and finally closes her mouth around a nude lace covered nipple. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Katya mumbles around a mouthful of lace, blindly reaching around to undo Trixie’s bra.

“No, but I might kiss _you_ again if you— _oh_ —keep this up.”

“Deal.” Katya shuts up for a long while, concentrating on the wonderful sensation of having Trixie moan and writhe against her, of lapping at her breasts and testing out various types of caresses, to find out which ones Trixie prefers.

It turns out—some time later, with Trixie spread out on the floor like a banquet feast—that they both enjoy _everything_ the other person has to offer. Katya has lost her shirt some time ago, and her skin burns hot under Trixie’s touch: but she finds herself unable to focus on her own pleasure, not when every insistent suck on Trixie’s nipples has the girl arching up from the carpet and pushing against Katya’s mouth. A small, smug and sarcastic part of her brain helpfully supplies that this is _exactly_ the kind of stuff that would have happened in one of Katya’s stories—only much, much better, because it’s not a fictional character that’s here with her, but Trixie, with her unreal Barbie cuteness and amazing responses that make Katya so wet she’s afraid on leaving a permanent stain on the carpet.

Well, if she did, it would be _so_ worth it.

She moans against Trixie at the thought, pinches her other nipple—slick with Katya’s saliva—and Trixie screams and soars up, her nails biting into Katya’s arms deep enough to draw blood. She falls back down after a moment, breathing heavily and pushing at Katya’s shoulders. “Oh, God,” she breathes, pulling Katya away from her breast—wet and glistening, with the nipple looking almost painfully erect—and putting two of her fingers against her mouth. Katya sucks them in happily, twirls her tongue around the sweaty tips. “You. Are. Something. Else.”

“A creature from the Black Lagoon?” Katya makes an attempt at a joke, but drops it quickly as her eyes refocus. Trixie looks thoroughly _fucked_ , with her eyes closed tight, the makeup smudged around them, her breathing ragged and her cleavage flushed red—Katya takes her in, and her jaw drops a little. “Trixie, Trixie—did you just?...”

Trixie scrunches up her nose and covers her face with one hand, nodding quickly. “Oh, God. I am so pathetic.”

Katya grins proudly and lies down on the carpet, keeping one arm thrown around Trixie’s waist, kisses her gently on the forehead. “Come on, baby. That was properly _hot_. Didn’t know I had it in me, not in my senile years.”

Trixie groans and turns her body to fit against Katya’s, burrows her head in her shoulder. “Okay, I think I’m better now. That ‘humor’ would have sobered anyone up.”

“Even after an Earth-shattering orgasm?” Katya quips, caressing Trixie’s back with long, gentle strokes; she feels the change in Trixie the moment it happens, her focus and intent returning with vengeance as the post-orgasmic bliss dissipates slightly.

“I wouldn’t quite call it _that_ ,” she counters, her tongue darting out to lick at the place where Katya’s neck and shoulder meet.

“Is that a challenge, Miss Mattel?”

Trixie looks up at her, all of a sudden looking lost, tense and unsure again. “I mean—you probably have things to do, places to be, and…”

Katya leans in and kisses her softly but with intent, until she can feel Trixie’s muscles relax under her hand. “Right now, there’s nothing I would rather do than this, here,” she gestures between them, wraps a hand around Trixie’s knuckles and kisses her wrist. “Sorry if that came out crude.”

“So… you’ll stay?”

She smiles at Trixie, kisses her nose and nods, getting up to her knees and pulling the younger woman with her. Trixie watches with wide eyes as Katya stands up and wriggles out of her sensible skirt, wrinkled past all help. She has no idea how she’s going to get home looking this ragged, but ( _thank God, or whoever is up there listening_ ) that’s not something she has to worry about, not just yet. “I will, yeah. For as long as you’ll have me.

“On _that_ note,” she adds, pulling Trixie up and allowing herself a moment of simply holding her close, skin on skin, their hearts beating unevenly, “I’m going to get us some water, shall I? I have a feeling that we might need it…”

**_TBC…_ **


End file.
